introspection
by Electric Smile
Summary: Twenty five pieces of fic, each from a different point in the life of-whoa surprise-Vega.
1. In the Flesh

Sometimes, they aren't afraid. Sometimes they are arrogant enough to think they stand a chance. They think of him, that scrawny-looking kid, and they can't imagine someone like that being able to strike fear into much of anyone. They are inexperienced. They wake up in the morning, he decides, and review the progress of endless deadlifts and other such monotonous exercises. They think that strength makes them invincible.

He watched from the corner. People have nearly become indistinguishable to him when they jump up here, volunteering themselves for the night's entertainment. There was no shortage of muscle-bound morons who sized up their competition and decided it'd be easy money to pummel some "asshole in a mask", as he'd been told. He never responded to them. Acknowledging this sort of asinine banter was beneath him.

Turning his eyes from the man as the rules of the fight were explained, he surveyed tonight's audience. More of the same. The scummy sort of people who got their thrills from watching two people beat each other senseless. People who had nothing better to do with their evening than drink themselves stupid. And the occasional criminals who did their dealings in a place sponsoring an already lurid act, as if it would provide some sort of shelter from watchful eyes. Sometimes there were those curious individuals who seemed unaware of what went on here, but needed to see it nonetheless. Most couldn't stomach a whole match, and were gone before it was over. Others found themselves a new hobby for lonely evenings. He eyed one such individual, likely some sort of businessman, and challenged himself to predict exactly how long it would be before he left with just a tinge of disgust.

The man in the opposite corner let out a primal howl as he was introduced to his audience. A few lifted their drinks to him. He heard another shout, "good luck!" A few made jokes to him. A few more told him very adamantly to get rid of this kid already.

He took no notice of his own introduction, focusing instead on his opponent, who seemed now to be nothing but a testosterone and adrenaline fueled ape. He heard, as if in the back of his mind, jeers from patrons who had grown tired of watching him win. A pang of irritation, but nothing more. He couldn't waste another ounce of concentration on them.

Now he was alone with the man, who swung a length of lead pipe from side to side as if to test its weight in his hands. Another one of those. He stood and waited for the man to approach. And he did. With a childish roar, the man charged forward. How many like him would make the same mistakes, over and over? Arm drawn back and ready to bludgeon, the man was finally close enough. With a hefty swing of his arm, he brought the pipe down. Vega stepped away, and shook his head at the predictability before bringing his leg up, heel connecting with the back of the man's head. A brief few seconds of stumbling allowed him for another kick while his opponent was unstable. The blow connected with his lower back, and the man fell forward, face rattling the chain link of the cage.

Ever the gentleman, Vega allowed him a second to regain composure. The man, furious with the embarrassment, shook his head and jumped to his feet. "You think you're funny or something you little shit?" He felt his lips twitch behind his mask, irritated with the turn of phrase. He'd heard it too many times before by a similar breed of man. There was no need to be humane to someone who would not return the favour. In a few short strides, he reached his opponent who swung the pipe again. Vega ducked beneath, and lashed out with the claw secured to his arm. The man let out a curse as it connected, leaving fine lines in his shirt and skin. With his free hand, Vega followed up with a hard blow to the side of the man's face, and then dropped low. A sweeping kick left the man on the mat. He delivered a kick to his ribs, causing the man to gasp for air and roll away. But Vega wasn't going to allow that.

Taking a handful of the man's hair, he pulled him to a sitting position, and waved a finger in his face, as if a parent reprimanding a child. The man gritted his teeth at the condescending behaviour, but his expression quickly changed when the blades of the claw glided over his face. He cried out without hesitation, holding a hand to the wounds. "You goddamned psycho!" he snarled, trying to grab at Vega's shirt and bring his opponent to his level. Vega responded with a knee to the man's chin, and followed with a kick to the side of his face. The man was sprawled out on the mat, groaning as he tried to climb to his feet. Vega paced around impatiently. It was taking too long. He kicked the man in the chest, and he toppled over. Vega dropped to his knees, one dropping against his opponent's sternum. One hand gripped the man's throat tightly. His opposite hand hung in the air as he rested the ends of the blades under the man's chin. Wide eyes looked back. How fast they'd gone from defiant to fearful. Confident to pleading. "D-don't do that," the man hissed, trying to sound intimidating, but failing as he felt the tips of those blades press harder against his throat.

"A man who would beg for his life instead of fight for it may not really deserve it," Vega responded as he contemplated what to do.

People were grabbing the chain link fence that made up the cage, shaking it and calling out. Some threatened Vega, others dared him to follow through. The man who'd introduced them was waving his hands madly, telling him to stop.

He was not foolish enough to commit murder in a crowded bar while locked in a cage. Taking his hand from the man's throat, he drew it back and slammed it back down directly into his nose. The man groaned, panting heavily as a shaking hand went to his face, finding more blood. Vega left him, disgusted. "I think, that's it, everyone, that's it," the announcer crowed, glancing nervously as the man on the mat. He climbed up into the cage, officially declaring Vega as the winner, yet again. Some people protested, a few even threw their drinks at the chain link cage.

Vega glanced back at his defeated opponent, and felt his lip curl. Maybe he'd outgrown this. He once again looked out to the spectators, and noticed a few shaking their heads at him. No. Maybe this was not worth the effort anymore. He left the bar without taking his money, exiting through the back into an alley. The claw worn on his wrist was now stowed innocuously in a back pack, along with more casual clothing. He looked around, searching for any signs of a pursuer. Someone pissed that their friend had lost the match and out to make things 'even'. Or even just a patron curious about who he was. No one in that bar had ever seen his face, and no one ever would.

The building next to the bar was two stories, with a ladder around the side that provided roof access. It had become his routine to climb it, and make a dangerous leap from the roof of the building to an adjacent one, and an even more dangerous leap to the fire escape of an apartment building. He'd only fallen once. It was painful enough for him to be sure to never miss the rung again. Once he reached the roof of that building, and confirmed he was alone, he took a second to crouch down and lay the back pack beside him. He pulled off his mask, and ran a hand through his hair out of habit. The mask went into the bag, and a shirt and jeans came out. The jeans went over the more form-fitting pants he wore in the fight without much discomfort, and that was all it took to transform him from a cage fighter in a mask to an average college-aged male.

"How very clever."

He jumped to his feet at the sound of the voice, spinning around to face the source of it. Hadn't he confirmed that he was alone up here? He must not have been thorough enough. A man stood not more than a few feet away, hands in his pockets as he strode forward. He looked vaguely familiar, but Vega couldn't place him. "I'm sorry?" he responded, feigning ignorance as to the context of the man's comment.

"The bag with the clothes. The difficult route to lose any tails or, at the very least, to make them more noticable before you reintegrate yourself as an average student wandering home from an evening class." The man smirked as he took notice of the slight twitch of the lips in the younger man, who'd just placed him as the man at the bar who he'd bet himself would be gone three minutes into the match. "But you aren't an average student at all, are you? You're quite a famous matador here in Spain."

"If you think of telling anyone, I'll cut your throat while you're sleeping," he threatened. It was all he could think of, being caught off guard by this stranger who obviously had some sort of agenda if he followed him this far.

In the space of a few seconds, the man had somehow covered the few remaining feet between them and took Vega by the throat, lifting him from the ground. Vega's eyes flew wide, fingernails digging into the skin of the man's wrist and the toes of his shoes desperately trying to find the ground so far below them. "Will you, now?" the man said, as if amused by the threat.

"Haa-" Vega choked out pathetically. The man snorted and released his grip. Vega landed on his feet, at least saved from the disgrace of crumbling in a pathetic heap. He crouched for a second, drawing in a full and uninhibited breath before taking another step away from the man. Not that it seemed to matter how much distance was between them-the man moved faster than anyone he'd ever seen. "Why did you follow me here?" he asked finally.

"I had business here in the city," the man explained. "You're famous in more ways than you know."

"How do you mean?"

"An...employee of mine mentioned you. Not by name, of course, since you pretend to not have one there."

"Names are irrelevant. Anyone can be whoever they want. What difference does it make?" he replied, becoming more irritated with this man the more he spoke.

"That much is evident, isn't it, Andres?"

He felt his heart leap into his throat. He didn't know the last time he'd heard that name. "Who the fuck are you already?" he snapped. He seemed to forget so quickly how moments before he was in danger of being strangled, having become too angered by the mind games this man wanted to play.

"Who I am now is not of much importance. It's who I will be should you hear me out and agree to my terms."

"Are you black-mailing me, then?" Vega asked.

"No. I'm offering you a job."

He didn't know what to say to that. It'd certainly been the last thing he was expecting to hear, right there beside his actual name. Who was this man that he seemed to appear from nowhere, who moved so quickly? And with so much strength? And how did he know his name? And what sort of job could he possibly have to offer? After a minute or so of contemplation, Vega ventured to ask, "What did you have in mind?"

The man smiled. "Let's talk over a drink."


	2. The Thin Ice

There had been no explanation. She'd woken the previous morning to find no trace of her husband. Searching the house room by room, calling for his name, yielded nothing. His car was here. His belongings were untouched. She'd called as many numbers as she could think of, asking for him and still could not find him. It worried her, but she tried not to get upset. He would be home for dinner. He always was.

As evening fell, she became more concerned. He had not called. There was still no sign of him. How long would he keep them waiting? She stayed up as late as she could, waiting for him, but he never came. She called the police the next day, out of options. None of his friends had seen him. None of his extended family knew where he'd gone. The police took note of the situation, but would not consider him a missing person until fourty-eight hours had passed. She was at a loss, even going so far as to take her son out with her in the car to drive around town in search of him. She knew that she wouldn't find him this way, but could no longer stand waiting and doing nothing.

Night came again. The house was quiet and felt empty without him there. She was helping her son get ready for bed when she heard it. Glass breaking down stairs. She froze, and turned around. "What was _that?_" her son asked and she quickly hushed him, taking him by the hand and straining to hear. She could hear footsteps. She felt herself breathing quickly, and scooped her son up into her arms.

"We have to be very quiet right now," she whispered, walking as silently as she could to the door. She was unsure of what to do. Whoever was downstairs would intercept her if she tried to escape. And she couldn't exit the home from the second floor with her son. She held him close to her, trying to peer over the banister to the living room below. The window in the back door had been shattered, the glass in pieces on the floor. There were four men, dressed in black and deep red. She quickly moved away from their line of sight, pressing herself against the walls. One of the men was giving orders in accented English. "Cover the exits. You two, with me."

She panicked, hearing heavy steps on the stairs. She made her way back towards her bedroom. "Where are we going?" her son asked. She opened the door of the closet, hoping the long dresses and coats in the corner would provide enough coverage to hide them.

"Shh, now, Andres," she said, getting to her knees and crawling into the closet. "We're playing hide and seek. We have to be silent, or we lose." It was difficult to speak without her voice shaking. He nodded in response. She closed the closet door quietly, and backed into the corner, pulling to clothing around them, and piling a little more at their feet. She held her son tightly, closing her eyes and praying for this to end with their safety.

The footsteps moved through the hall. Her heart was racing. They were in the bedroom now. There was a sliver of light under the door. She felt tears welling in her eyes, and she shook her head. There were muffled voices. The door to the closet opened. She forced herself to stop breathing. Maybe they wouldn't notice. Maybe they would take whatever they were here for and leave.

The clothing moved. She felt a sob welling up in her throat. She pressed her son's head to her chest, covering his eyes. The clothing hiding them was pulled away, and she stared up in terror at the faces of one of the invaders in black. "Commander Suominen!"

A second man approached. She would never forget those cold, blue eyes set in the pale and passive face. He seemed to be calculating as he looked at the pathetic scene, a terrified woman clutching a child tightly, backed into the corner of a darkened closet. The pale man finally spoke with a thick accent. "He is not here."

"What about them, Commander?"

"I do not see anything in there, corporal," the pale man responded as he turned away. The other man followed without another word. She sat there in the closet, unable to move. She expected the worst when she saw them. And now, they were gone. She took short, shallow breaths, and suddenly let out a cry. She grabbed her son tightly, and began to cry.


	3. Another Brick

He found it by accident. He'd dropped something-what had it been, a pencil or a paintbrush?-and it rolled beneath a dresser. When he fished it out, along with a little dust, he'd noticed something else. At first he'd thought it was a piece of paper, but when he touched it, it didn't feel so flimsy. He drew it out, and for a second, didn't really get it. He pulled himself up to a sitting position on the floor as he looked it over. A polaroid of some dark-haired guy leaning against a car. There was half of another man, holding a bottle of beer and he looked to have been in the middle of speaking. The car looked kind of old, from the eighties, he'd guessed but he wasn't so great with identifying vehicles anyway. He flipped it over, thinking maybe there'd be written on it a date or description. Some people did that. But it was blank.

"Little bird, they make chairs for sitting and floors for standing."

"I'm not great with directions, I suppose," he responded to her. He looked up, offering the picture to her. "Who are they?"

It took only a second for her face to lose its curious expression to be replaced with dread. She took the picture, staring for a few seconds before muttering, "Just some fools I had the misfortune of knowing." Then like that, the picture was crumpled up into a ball. Her knuckles turned white from squeezing so hard, and he raised his eyebrow.

"What did they do that makes you so mad?"

"What all men do. Conquered something, bent it to their will, and after it has snapped, left it for dead." She didn't have anything else to say, and he watched cautiously as she stormed into the kitchen, tossing the picture into the garbage as she went. He wasn't quite sure what she meant by all of that. She was prone to bouts of anger in which she'd declare these sweeping generalisations of how men were, and he knew it'd be a few hours before she would want to do anything other than rant about it again. He felt guilty for putting her in such a mood over his own curiosity.


End file.
